


til bursting

by notavodkashot



Series: crunchverse AU [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: AU of an AU, Alternate Universe - Werecreatures, Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Animal Traits, Animal Transformation, At least heir love is real-ish, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Barbed Penis, Bestiality, Dom/sub Play, Enthusiastically Consensual despite the severe lack of anything sane or safe here, M/M, Mentions of CBT, Mentions of Enforced Chastity, Non-explicit allusions and references to CSA, Nothing says I love you like indulging your SOs self-destructive kinks, Question for the ages: is it sloppy seconds if the firsts were also yours, Rimming, Sex Toys, Size Difference, Size Kink, Size Queen!Cor is best Cor, Sloppy Seconds, Subdrop, Subspace, They are terrible people with dubious intentions but hey, crunch!Mors was even worse than puppy!Mors can you believe that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 00:50:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14485131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notavodkashot/pseuds/notavodkashot
Summary: Cor wants Nyx to ruin him, utterly.Nyx obliges.





	til bursting

**Author's Note:**

> READ THE FUCKING TAGS.
> 
> It took me an hour to tag all that shit. READ THE FUCKING TAGS.
> 
> You done? Good. This is a terrible AU of an AU, for the puppy AU, affectionately called the crunch AU. Where everything that's vaguely unsettling but in the end not particularly offensive about the puppy AU is instead dialed up to eleven and then taken to its natural creepybadwrong conclusion.
> 
> That said! Yes, this is the story about coeurl!Nyx fucking Cor into a mindless smear of stupid. In as much painstakingly explicit detail as I could write it, yes.
> 
> ...yes, we all need Jesus.

* * *

 

_til bursting_

* * *

 

Theirs is a game of boundaries, of finding said boundaries and then pushing past them until they’re broken thoroughly and new ones have been set up further in the distance. It’s a cycle, vicious and bloody and addictive as Cor imagines any given drug would be. He doesn’t need drugs, though. Not when he’s got Nyx being pleased with his efforts, pleased even when he lets himself be every bit the inhuman monstrosity he knows he is.

Escalation, then, has always been the name of the game, outdoing one another and themselves.

The first time Nyx fucks him is also the first time Nyx sees him kill, seemingly unprovoked - Cor had an excuse, he’s very good at coming up with excuses why problematic people in Regis’ orbit need to _go_ \- and that kind of set the tone of their relationship. Because it is a relationship, after all. Cor has been forced to admit this fact after meandering about the knowledge for months. Relationship sounds too human for his tastes, sometimes, but they make it work.

They make it work.

These days it’s hard to say if he kills for the sake of keeping his King safe and sound on his throne, as he should be, or for the sheer fucking thrill of it. And oh, Nyx knows how to make it thrilling. Nyx, unlike Clarus, doesn’t ask him to be more human than he feels he can, which is sometimes nothing. And unlike Regis, he doesn’t mind staking a claim on him, giving him purpose, setting rules and discipline and all the things Cor’s missed keenly since his last owner died.

He’s not supposed to miss his last owner, not the least because he was an owner and that’s not how it was supposed to be, between them. But Mors was the King and Cor was his Hound, and the leash he wore was more literal than metaphorical sometimes, because Mors didn’t mind reminding him exactly how much he was owned. And some - most - of it was terrible and some of it was… not terrible, but it was a world that made some measure of sense. Nyx is like that, only he doesn’t make Cor want to die, half the time.

So it’s fine.

It’s fine.

The war is over and the chips have fallen on the table, and now all that’s left is for them to navigate them as best they can.

Still, the first time Cor had watched Nyx fuck their prey in turn, literally to death, he'd come in his pants without even touching himself. He hadn't meant to. He didn't have permission. But the sight of Nyx's cock, barbed and massive and ruthless, fucking a body into nothing, shredding it inside out... Cor had thought about that cock in him, tearing him open and ruining him until he was split right in the middle, and he was nothing but a smear of come and blood for Nyx's pleasure. And then he'd come all over himself, soiled his pants right where he stood and sobbed in the back of his throat when Nyx made him lick the stains.

He'd asked for it. Of course he had. He'd begged. He'd curled at Nyx's side, wearing the cage again because he was filthy and senseless and unreliable, and begged Nyx to ruin him.

Nyx hadn't. Not right then. But he'd smiled at him, that thin, pleased smile that meant Cor had done something unexpectedly right, for once. The one Cor lived for, most of the time. And Cor had clung to the memory of that smile, because it was almost a promise.

No, not a promise, not quite. A reward. A goal to work towards.

And oh, Cor only knows how to work _hard_.

* * *

Nyx gets him toys.

Dead, cold things that feel foreign and terrible inside him, stretching him and taking him back to the days when his master's touch was not reassuring, because his master was not Nyx. He doesn't like the toys. He doesn't like the rubbery quality of silicone, the soulless feeling of metal, the unyielding blunt edge of glass. He doesn't like it, but Nyx makes him an offer: if he can work his way to the largest plug and the thickest dildo, he'll give Cor what he wants. Cor's never had a choice, before. Not like this. He's a hole to fuck, a base, filthy thing, suitable only for killing and fucking and little else. He's a good hole, he reckons. He can be quiet and not make a mess. He doesn't flinch, when he bleeds - doesn't really bleed anymore, either - and he doesn't scream unless he's allowed.

But he's never had a _choice_ , before. Not like this. Not where it's entirely on him, to do it or not. He's never been given such a concrete knowledge of what reward awaits him, if he does a good job.

(He remembers, once, delirious and sweaty, weight on his knees as he bounces up and down half a foot of silicone twisted up in the shape of a dog's dick, because Nyx has a terrible sense of humor, trying to warm himself up enough to slide down into the cartoonishly huge knot at the base of it - he remembers His Majesty's idea of a reward, and the old scars throb and itch, and he can't scratch them right now, because Nyx has forbidden him from touching his cock, and usually he wouldn't care, because it's a tiny, pitiful wreck not worth the effort, but that day...)

The first time Nyx folds a fist inside him, Cor screams into the rug, thighs trembling with need and balls aching every time lube drips down his hole and taunts them. Nyx orders him to fuck himself on his hand and his arm and Cor obeys like he always does, eager and reckless, basking in the allowance to make as much noise as he wants.

"Yes," Nyx tells him, watching come drip down the strained tip of his dick, just a few stray drops that burn viciously on the way out, because after the third orgasm, Cor had lost count and his mind at once, and his body is trying but there's only so much he can do at this point. "Yes, I think you could take it, now." And oh, Cor wishes he could be hard again, could show his appreciation properly, but Nyx has four fingers in him, two from each hand, pulling him open so he can stare at his insides, like he's judging the quality, and Cor can only hope he's not found wanting. "Now all that's left is for you to _earn_ it."

* * *

In the end, though, he doesn't earn it by kneeling. He doesn't earn it by presenting, his mouth or his ass, both holes that feel by now like they were made to wrap loose and tight in turns around the length of Nyx's dick. He doesn't earn it by developing a taste for a few of the toys, the ones Nyx likes best and enjoys fucking him with the most, like a warm up before the main event. He doesn't earn it by showing off his lack of a gag reflex or by desperately obeying each order he’s given.

In the end, Cor earns it by showing he's learned Nyx's credo, by looking after his own.

It's probably a terribly significant thing, that, and he should think about it at some point. But he's tired in a soulless, hopeless kind of way, because he's always known killing the killers won't bring the dead back to life, no matter how much you want it to. This, he remembers, is why he started stalking prey in the fringes of Regis’ awareness - and not so fringe anymore, not since Nyx got tangled into his mess and started pushing the metaphorical house cleaning closer and closer to the King, so close it’s a miracle they haven’t been caught - to be proactive rather than reactive. Cor thinks of the girl, a tiny thing, and yet the whole sum total of Cid’s world now, sobbing into her grandfather’s side, and he knows there’s not enough murder in the world, to make up for it.

He still tried, though. Because of course he did.

He's got foul blood stuck to the roof his mouth, but it's not the kind to be relished in, because these crimes were closer to home, hit him harder than any horror stories Nyx digs out in the court. He comes back to Hammerhead, exhausted in more ways than one, and sleeps curled up with his head in Nyx's lap, soaking the warmth of deft fingers combing his hair and that soft, kind voice telling him exactly what a good job he's done.

It's night again, when he wakes up, though the moon's not really far up yet. Nyx holds his hands and kisses them, licking the ghost of death between each knuckle, and then takes him out, into the wilderness. Cor follows  - Cor always follows, that's what he's good at, following and fucking and breaking to pieces, apparently - until they're standing in the old ruins of a haven, the stone platform raised off the ground, and the dead, dark runes still clearly carved all around. There's a small rock-like platform off the side, something Cor fancies might have been worn down into a seat or a table, during those hundreds of years that this place stood there like a beacon of hope for weary travelers.

"Strip," Nyx commands, but there's no urgency on his voice now, nothing nervous or anxious, just a great serene certainty that makes Cor relax by degrees. Nyx always knows what's best, so Cor doesn't have to really think about it. "On your hands and knees, on that rock."

Cor obeys, breathing out a soft, pliant _thank you_ as he does, because he needs this, he really does, and he's not used to killing now without Nyx there to judge and tease and fuck him after. The rock feels weirdly altar-like, but mostly comfortable. He braces his weight on his chest and his stomach, spreading his legs without needing to be told, because Nyx enjoys the reminder of what he owns and Cor enjoys the reminder of who owns him.

"Hold yourself open for me, Cor," Nyx orders, and Cor does without question - he could have done it on his own, really, he’s eager to please, but he knows how much Nyx loves to tell him to do it, and Cor knows exactly how to make Nyx happy - rim twitching, hopefully invitingly as he lays there and wonders feverishly what he'll get for his trouble. "Good boy," Nyx whispers, voice thick and pleased, and Cor's toes curl against the eerily smooth stone, his cock hanging hard and useless down the side of the pedestal-like rock he's lying on. "Good boy," Nyx repeats, and Cor bites back a whimper when he feels the tip of a nozzle press into him without much ceremony.

He gasps as he feels the cold, slippery liquid push inside, and his skin breaks out in goosebumps, because Nyx only uses that kind of lube when he's going to shove something so far deep inside Cor, he'll swear he can feel it coming out the back of his throat. It's less personal, to be slicked up this way, but it's not like he needs the stretch of fingers at this point. Still, lube drips freely down his thighs, and he's ashamed to realize he's pretty close to coming just from anticipation alone.

"You may come, if you want," Nyx tells him, casually, generously, and Cor's heart skips a beat in his chest, but that's not enough to prepare him for the onslaught of concessions he's being given. "You may scream. You may beg. You may also tell me to stop."

Cor whimpers, a small, needy, panicked sound, because he's used to having one or two of those, not all of them at once, and he's not sure he can handle them all without splintering right in the middle.

"Cor," Nyx says, voice soothing and kind and grounding him back to his own bones, "you _will_ tell me to stop, when you need it."

"Yes," Cor replies, because it's an order and he can't not obey Nyx's orders, it's the only certainty that makes the world make sense, sometimes.

"Good."

Then there's silence. Cor's still lying on his chest on the rock, balancing his weight between his toes scrapping the dirt and the cool, solid platform holding him up. He's still got his hands on his ass, spreading  himself just the way Nyx likes best when he does, inviting him in, without betraying how needy he feels. And oh, he feels needy. He's been given far too many rewards for this session, rewards he hasn't earned yet. He knows he's expected to earn them, as they go along. He knows...

Cor arches his back off the stone platform, eyes rolling in the back of his head, and comes raucously against the side of the rock, when he feels a rough, wide, enormous tongue lapping up against his twitching, wanton hole. He comes with a terrified gasp, because he knows Nyx's tongue - the strength and length and touch of it, marking and tasting every inch of him, inside and out - _and that's not it_. That tongue is big enough to slather spit all over his ass, and there's teeth the size of his palm, sharp, vicious fangs, catching on the skin of his ass, almost like a playful, taunting bite to one of his cheeks. Cor tries to hold back the shriek, when that rough, textured, merciless tongue licks his wreck of a cock, pushing it hard against the rock, almost as if to squeeze the last of his come straight out of it.

He's breathing desperately hard, when the tongue swoops back up, to press against his hole, testing the resistance, and the back of Cor's thighs tremble because there's no way. There's no way, it's too wide and too long, and then he realizes, if he can't take this, how could he take anything else? And the reality of it, the sheer magnitude of size he never really notices because for all Nyx is big next to him right now, he's used to be being bigger, stronger... the reality of it humbles him into a second orgasm, sobbing into the air as he arches his back and strains himself to offer better access to his hole.

It's a good hole, is the thing. He didn't think so, before. Before Nyx, it was a needy, restless, wanton thing that just wouldn't be tamed. Before Nyx, his hole was a thing to be broken, torn, ruined. Nyx likes it, though. Nyx likes to finger the rim and pinch it close after Cor takes something so big he can't close back up on his own again. Nyx likes to kiss his hole, tongue and teeth and lips, when he's shiny clean and ready to be wrecked in whichever way will please Nyx's most. _He's a good hole_ , Cor thinks desperately, terrified, because Nyx moves to loom over him, soft fur brushing up his back as powerful paws settle ahead of him, and he's very consciously small and helpless as he stands on his toes, legs stretched taunt, to offer his hole to... to... whatever's coming his way. He has a moment of clarity, lying there, feeling the vibrations of Nyx's breathing echo through his skin, as he drips come and lube, and feels his hole twitch, trying to open up on its own: this is going to ruin him. This is the thing that destroys him. He'll never be a good hole again, after this, if he survives this.

He feels the tip of Nyx's cock find his ass, warm and slick and curved like a tiny hook that very quickly grows in size, the head covered in barbs and the rest fat and hard and about as thick as Cor's fists put together. He knows that cock. He's licked it before. He's been so good, before, that Nyx has given him leave to play with it. To feel the small, hard spikes against his hands, and then finger himself at the thought of having them wreck him inside out, while he opened his mouth and pretended he could fit Nyx's girth down his throat.

There's no pretending now.

There's no imagining.

Cor shoves his hips back up as much as he can, and tries to relax himself. He's learned to take the plugs and the toys and he's a lot more flexible than he ever was, before. He can stretch to bursting and then close back up after a few days, and he knows it's because Nyx is there, always, to look after him when it happens.

Cor swallows hard against a deadly dry throat, and whimpers.

"Please," he says, mouth finding the words out of sheer fucking habit, not real thought, "please, Sir, please. Please fuck my hole. Please. I can take it. Please, please, _please_."

The first thrust misses entirely, and Cor can't tell if it's by design or not: he feels the entire length rub between his cheeks, brushing against the fingers holding them spread open so hard he'll have bruises there in the morning. (And he swallows a hysterical giggle, at the thought, because bruises of his own fingers are going to be the least of his problems, in the morning.) He feels the tip, and the rest of the head, and its terrifying, unyielding barbs, and then the sheer fucking _length_ and it has to be more than an arm.  
Nyx growls, the sound low in his throat, rumbling down his chest and echoing into Cor by touch alone.

The second thrust misses, too. And the third. Cor arches against each, deliberate movement, when it happens, but then the fourth time, he risks reaching behind him, letting go of his ass to catch that tiny hook-like twist at the tip of Nyx's cock, and pressing it against the erratic, almost panicked twitching of his rim.

The hook catches, there. It doesn't hurt, but Cor knows what it means, and his cock is hard again, leaking like the unruly, stupid thing it is, but he was not put in the cage for this, not even after so long on his own without it, and Cor is torn by the thought that Nyx wants him to come at his own leisure, or maybe he trusts him to hold it together without crutches. This would be his third orgasm, so Cor's not sure he can't really do the latter anymore, but the former makes him anxious in a way he can't readily explain.

The fourth thrust is slow and steady and purposeful. Cor widens up obediently as the head pushes into him, and then whimpers when his rim stretches and stretches and the first round of barbs finds its way in. They're not sharp, not quite. Just hard and unrelenting, and he can already feel the delicate skin of his insides twitch and stretch too thin around them.

Cor doesn't realize he's crying until he's choking on a sob, but Nyx is warm. He's warm and alive and real, and for all he's as big if not bigger than the toys Cor has learned dutifully to take, he's different. There's nothing cold or artificial about this, nothing to escape the reality that he's bent over a rock, out in the open, with a fully grown coeurl curled over him, shoving his cock up his ass.

And he likes it.

He _likes_ it.

It's Nyx and not the coeurl, Cor knows, because his hips twitch and the head grinds up inside him, catching on his skin and pressing dangerously hard and taunting into his walls. This is Nyx, not just a random beast. It's not like Cor came out here and set himself up as an offering to any wild thing that wanted to wreck his slutty, weepy hole. This is Nyx, who loves him and owns him and knows the inside of Cor's fucked up head better than he does, giving him something he wants more than air itself.

Cor weeps with the weight of it, the tender, loving, crushing weight of it, and comes again just to try and squeeze on the head of Nyx's dick and make him feel halfway as good as he feels.

The fourth thrust is an eternal slide of skin on skin, and his hole twitches and stretches and stretches and _stretches_ as Nyx forces the rest of his cock inside in a slow slide that makes Cor whimper, then gasp, then sob, then scream. He screams like cat in heat, yowling as Nyx finally, finally settles in, and Cor feels fur pressing against his skin. The scream tapers off into a tiny, needy sound, because he's full, fuller than full, bloated to bursting and heavy with warmth, and all he wants is to bask in it and never stop.

He wonders what he looks like, his insides shoved aside to accommodate Nyx's length. If it'll be like some of the longer, thicker toys Nyx likes to fuck him with, and then grab his hand and show him how his gut twists and reshapes around them. Cor feels his entire being pulse with uncomprehending heat, as Nyx's chest rumbles with a loud, pleased purr. He's done it. He's done it. He's full to bursting and drunk on it, and whatever leaks out of his cock aches on the way out, splattering down into the side of the rock he's sprawled on without a care. Because honestly, what can he even care about, at this point, beyond the borderline divine feeling of his body spasming around Nyx's girth, muscles trying to clench and force it out, and only succeeding in making Cor keenly aware of every inch of him that's currently wrapped up tight around every inch of Nyx's vicious edges.

Then Nyx pulls back, slowly, carefully, and the barbs are sharp now, carving up grooves alongside Cor's insides, threatening to turn him inside out in the process, and he screams again, and he comes again, as his entire being is reduced to the bright, vibrant stroke of pain commanding all his senses.

The fifth thrust starts as soon as the fourth ends, slow and steady but endless and unrelenting. Cor makes not very human sounds as he slumps into the rock holding up his weight, muscles straining and then failing as his strength oozed out of them and left him helpless and pliant on that platform, set up like a convenient cocksleeve for Nyx's cock. It hurts. It hurts like nothing has ever hurt before, deep inside, touching places nothing had ever hurt him before. And it feels great and overwhelming, and he's lost track of how much he's come, his own dick twitching insignificantly against the rock, almost like a nuisance and nothing more.

Cor feels himself falling and falling, weightless and senseless and vaguely aware of his body in a distant way, not really interested in it.

He's gone, and he doesn't pass out so much as fade out of existence entirely, sunken into the euphoric pleasure of serving Nyx and making him happy and being good. He's a good hole. He's a good cocksleeve. He's good by just lying there and taking it, ass stretched and insides torn.

He could die like this, and he would be happy.

He feels Nyx's climax echoing through his body, like he's an empty, hollow thing made to bounce back anything given to him. Cor sobs again, notices only then that his eyes are wet and puffy and he must have been crying the whole time, but this is different, this is conscious. His body feels raw and hot and ruined, and Nyx is now slamming his hips into him, fast and desperate, and he can't even feel the barbs, can't even pinpoint individual pains, until he's flooded within. Usually, he has to concentrate, to really feel it happening. He has to be waiting for it. Maybe it's the size. Maybe it's the fact he must be bloody and torn and the touch of it makes the skin throb. Maybe it's just plain different, because it's a coeurl.

Cor keens, back arched and body clenching down on reflex, as he feels the sticky, ponderous flow of Nyx's seed breeding him like it means anything. Like he's not a dead end, in all possible ways. Cor sobs through it, discovering there's a way to feel even fuller still, and there's so much. Just so much, he doesn't remember it ever being that much, not when Nyx would lay on his side and let him fondle and kiss his cock until it spewed bitter come all over his face. It tastes different, and feels different, and now Cor wonders why he thought it would be the same in any other respect and instead whines because he's full and ruined and Nyx keeps going, keeps rolling his hips, scraping his sides, painting him inside out with his come and his cock...

Cor has the vivid, drunken thought that he's never going to not smell of Nyx, after this. It's a deliriously happy thought, and his body spasms on reflex, less of an orgasm as the vague idea of one, because he's spent dry and his body's sore and pleasure and pain and everything else is meaningless against the magnitude of what he's done.

* * *

"Show me," Nyx says, voice hoarse around the command, and Cor wonders how long he's been standing there, how long since he stepped back, if he's in trouble for not really noticing, if... "Cor. Show me."

Cor whimpers as he forces his arms to move. He's made Nyx repeat the order. He's ruined things, because he's a needy, stupid  thing too wrapped up in his own needs, his own filthy pleasure. He's sobbing again, as his fingers find his hole, rim feverishly hot to the touch, gaping wide around nothing but the remnants of the lube and the sticky, drying come that, he realizes, is still slowly dripping down his thighs. Cor whimpers when he pulls his entrance open wide, fingers hooked on the rim because it's slippery. It hurts. It hurts. And Nyx... Nyx is probably...

"I want to fuck you again," Nyx says, voice low and reverent, fingers reaching out to touch next to Cor's, and there's so much come and lube in him, it keeps dripping out, sloshing out the sheer fucking emptiness of him, trying to find a way out. "Can I fuck you again? Like this?" Nyx asks - asks, like Cor knows how to answer - and slides a finger in, rubbing the sloppy mess against his walls, seeing the ruined aftermath of... of whatever he's become. "Cor?"

"Please, Sir," Cor replies, mindless, soulless, hopeless, because when in doubt, beg. When in doubt, let Master do what he will. "Please."

Nyx's cock is thick and veiny and it leaves a lasting impression if you take him dry and he bounces you on it for a few minutes before sending you off on your way. Cor would know. Cor loves Nyx's cock. He knows every inch of it, the precise spots that are sensitive and the ones that aren't and welcome his fangs into it, when he's sucking it. He knows the stretch inside his ass, the feeling of his rim sliding along its length, clutching tightly and trying to hoard it in. He knows the weight on his tongue, the tip caught on his throat, pouring come straight down his stomach, the base resting on his teeth and trusting him not to bite.

Cor doesn't feel it slide in, doesn't feel it crash into him, into the sloppy, wet, ruined wreck of him, but he knows it's there because Nyx groans, and digs his hands into his hips.

And Cor tries. He really does. He tries to clench and force himself close, to offer any kind of friction, any kind of pleasure. This is his whole purpose, right here, this is what he was made for, and he's failing at his duty, he's ruined beyond salvation. He cries with the hurt of it, something far more powerful and painful than the miserable throbbing of his ass and his insides and the scraps that sting at every brush against it. He cries and cries, fingers still holding himself open, index and middle finger of each hand, four of them, opening up and feeling Nyx slide past into nothing. And he cries when Nyx moans, that stuttering, pleased sound that's always followed by a rush of come and has conditioned Cor to lick his lips in anticipation of cleaning it up. It makes him cry, instead, because he can't feel it. He's numb to it, and he wants it. He wants to feel the warmth of Nyx, the weight of his come in him. He wants to know himself seeded, fulfilled, because what else is he good for if not this?

And he cries and he cries, and then Nyx slumps into his back and kisses the back of his neck, over the old imprint of his own teeth scarred forever into the mark Cor bares at him when he kneels at his feet, the first real show of ownership that made Cor realize he was safe and wanted and fine.

"You did so good," Nyx tells him, and Cor cries harder, louder, the sound broken and caught somewhere in his throat. "So, so good for me," Nyx insists, petting his head and pulling him up so he can sit on the rock, amidst the remnants of all that's leaked out of Cor so far, and pull Cor into his lap to hold him. "So perfect for me, you were gorgeous, Cor."

Cor cries into Nyx's neck, body sore and ruined, come leaking out his still gaping hole, and surrenders to the words and the touch and tries not to think about the fact he'll never be of use again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out on [DW](https://notavodkashot.dreamwidth.org/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/notavodkashot), if you'd like.


End file.
